The chill tears through his duster, stomach grumbling beneath the layers. He heaves a breath, fog vanishing in the wind. It thunders through the trees, threatening to whisk away the cattleman. He tips his head down, ice slicing across his face, nipping at his cheeks.

The horses chuff, hooves pounding through the snow. The mountain looms besides them, trees cascading over the edge, their snow covered branches dusting with each gust. Their ominous whistling setting each nerve on edge, hairs standing along his neck.

"Just up 'ere," his brother calls up ahead.

He dips his head in agreement, following his brothers horse as it trudges through the deep powder.

'Just up here' he says. 'Just over there'. Nothing make's itself known, no tracks, no forgotten fur, no carcass, nothing. Nothing but the great expanse of the Rockies. 

Hours bleed into each other, each more monotonous as the next. Nothing beyond the vast sea of trees, the stark white blanketing the mountain. The winds drowning out conversation, the rumbling in his stomach a constant reminder of why they're out here. And the heart sinking pull of nothing making itself know. Nothing but endless white, the sharp smell of pine, and the vast emptiness of the wilderness.